Despair
by Chinsky
Summary: - My English teacher says despair is a loss of all hope. Is that what my girlfriend wanted for us, when she shot herself in the head? - One-shot. Would-be rated R for language, but then you guys wouldn't see it here. Deal.


**Despair** by CHINSKY

A/N: This was so hard to write. I had to detach myself, or else I wouldn't be able to do it. It's based on a true story. Did any of you guys read **Asking Why** by My Divinest? If you didn't, go do so. Both stories are based on the same thing.

Dedicated to J.M.

Disclaimer: I wish I had made more of this up, but I didn't. What happens at the end isn't mine either. I elaborated, but it's really My Divinest's too. Thanks darling.

Rated R for strong language.

$&#&($&(#(&#

"Fuck. This isn't happening." That was the first thing I thought. I assumed it was a joke. She couldn't possibly be that depressed, or not love me enough, or hell, _hate me_ enough, to do this.

It just couldn't be true.

I loved her. Hell, what's with the past tense? I _love_ her. Always have. It's true. The moment I stared right back into those glowing, ebony eyes, I felt something like never before. And no, it wasn't testosterone or hormones, because I was only 10.

She's the most amazing person I've ever known. Then again, when you claim to love a person, I think you're supposed to feel that way.

She was my world. My earth, my heaven, even my hell, because when I wasn't with her, that's what life was. Her long dark hair was always soft under my fingertips, and it always smelled of something I couldn't quite place. I can still smell it. It must be etched into my nose. Her perfect pink lips were so kissable, it was a gift from God whenever she let me kiss her. Her tiny button nose, the perfect equivalent for her face. And her eyes…

_God,_ her eyes. They're just…they're so…God. I don't know what the hell to say, and believe me, that's a first. I already told you that they were the first things I noticed about her.

They were probably the last too.

I should've seen it coming. Her eyes, boring right into her open soul, should've been the biggest clue.

Her somewhat abusive father could've been the other.

The worst part of it all is that I'm still Freddy fucking Jones. I'm still selfish, and the one thing I keep thinking is, "How could she do this to me?" Even though it's unbearable, it's the only thing I can think.

Shit, I loved her so much.

I don't have anyone to blame for this, either. If anyone's, it's my fault. I should've seen it coming, remember? It was all me. All my fucking fault.

And that's why I'm calling Zack Mooneyham right now, even though:  
a) We haven't talked in 2 years, and  
b) I'm crying my freaking eyes out.

I wait. One ring, then two. The only reason I'm calling is because I know he'll understand me.

He loved her too.

"Hello?"

The sound of his voice struck a chord in me, because I knew it echoed the sound of mine. The distress, the anger, the despair…

My English teacher says despair is a loss of all hope. Is that what my girlfriend wanted to come for all of us, when she shot herself in the head?

"Zack?…Um, hey."

Gee, real smooth.

"_Freddy?!_ What are you…how did you…" he sighed. He obviously had no patience for me.

"You heard, then," was the only thing I could manage to say. I swatted at my eyes…damn things wouldn't stop crying. I sniffled too. I sounded like a big pathetic bawling baby, and it wasn't fair. I bet she felt a hell of a lot worse than this, when she got the gun and raised it to her head.

"Of course I heard." His voice was cold, but that was expected.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Funny how the next silence that came between us wasn't an uncomfortable one. Of course, silence makes me remember, and my chest made this funny noise and I made a gagging sound. I tried to stifle the next sob that escaped me, but it sounded more like I was strangling a cow.

Zack didn't laugh though, like I half expected him to. He just drew breath in—real slow and shaky—and let it back out—even slower and shakier.

I suddenly realized there was no reason for me to be on the phone with him. It's not like I had anything to say to him. If I did, I would've talked to him sometime in the past 2 years.

Right as I was about to apologize for calling though, he spoke, and he spoke the words that were crumbling my heart into a million bleeding pieces.

"This sucks so fucking much man. We both loved her, but she obviously didn't see that, or didn't care. She was so smart. Why didn't she talk to us, and if not us, someone else? She left us behind, and God, just thinking about it almost makes me want to do the same thing. But _fuck_ Freddy, where the _fuck_ did she get a gun? That shit of a father she has, I bet. I hope he's happy now. His little princess is up in the clouds because she thought nobody loved her. I want her back just so I can tell her how much we loved her and how much she fucked everything up for us, Freddy, don't you?"

The strangling cow noises were coming on in full force now. I answered in the only way I could.

"Yeah. I do. But I want her back for more than just that, Zack. I want her back because we all fucking miss her…"

I couldn't go on. My voice didn't even sound human anymore.

(#$(&#$(#

Her funeral was the hardest shit I've ever gone through in my life. It was a closed casket…it just made it harder to imagine what was underneath.

I sat next to Zack, in the last pew. The rest of the band sat in front. Personally, I thought the strangling cow noises would scare them.

It had rained both days of her wake, which actually made me somewhat happy (if you could call it happiness). My grandpa once said that if it rains on a funeral or a wake, it means the person (in heaven) is happy, and watching down on us.

It wasn't raining today. Just cloudy and overcast. Cheesy reference, but just like my heart.

A lot of teachers showed up too. I guess they'd miss my girl's straight A's. They didn't know the real girl, though. The girl behind the grades. They didn't know that her heart was 3 times the size of her brain. Or that her second toe was bigger than her first, and she was paranoid about it. They didn't know her favorite ice cream (Mint Chocolate Chip) or her favorite flowers (purple—yes, purple—roses). They didn't know that she had 2 boys in love with her. They didn't know that her father had beaten her.

But they did know that she obviously couldn't find a better way out.

I can't believe she did it the way she did, too. I'd never commit suicide, I've seen what it does to people, but if I ever did, I wouldn't use a gun._ How the hell could she find the strength to pull the trigger?_ I ask myself. _Couldn't she just use that strength to keep on living?_

Guess not.

#$&#($&#(&#

For some strange reason, I was asked to write something for the school paper for all of this. About how I felt, or something like that. I turned them down. Honestly, I don't even _know_ how I feel. My girlfriend shot herself in the head, and they want me to write about how I _feel_?

Don't think so.

You know, the school fucking pissed me off too. They didn't even say how she did it. Don't they think we deserve to know? They just said she "passed away". Fuck. That hurt more, because the truth was she passed _herself_ away. Unless God made her do it.

If He did, I'm really mad at God right now.

#$(&)(#&&((#

The part that kills me—

Fuck. Did I just say that?

Oh my God. I didn't mean it. Really.

I can't say shit like that anymore. Never again. Not unless I really really mean it.

The part that I _hate_, is that I keep having this re-occuring dream. And it hurts so much.

She and I. We're outside on my swing set—like we always used to—and we're just talking. The conversation changes every night, but it mostly revolves around how depressed everyone is.

First she asks about Zack. And I answer. Zack's a wreck. He hasn't picked up a guitar, or even smiled, in weeks. His eyes reflect mine, and it hurts to just look at him. As bad as I feel about her, this whole mess in general, and myself, I feel that badly for Zack too.

Then she asks about the band. So I tell her about Dewey, who, although came to the funeral, moved to California last week. Yeah. That means, no more band. I don't care. It's not like we could ever play together after this, anyways.

Then she asks about all of the other guys. Frankie has beaten up 7 people in the past week alone. New record, might I add. He has In School Suspension, Out of School Suspension, and Detention consecutively over the next 2 weeks.

Lenny hasn't come to school since. A few kids think he transferred to public school.

Lawrence locks himself in the bathroom for every class that he had with her, because without her, he's the best in the class. The smartest. He can't handle that.

Marco is seeing a shrink.

Billy's been wearing the school uniform with no added accessories, and it seems that the word "fabulous" has been permanently deleted from his vocabulary. (That's a big deal.)

Gordon's been wearing all black instead of his uniform. He has yet to get in trouble for it. At least the school has _some_ heart.

After we talk about all that, she says that she's sorry about the band. I tell her that it's okay. She asks me how I am. I answer that if I told her, I would lose it. She just nods and looks away. After that, it suddenly gets really really bright. Like the sun is setting, but it's angled right at my eyes. And then out of all that light, I see _her_ eyes, because she's looking back at me. And I spend a few minutes just looking at those eyes. Her eyes...

And then I ask her the question that eats me from inside.

"Summer Hathaway…Are you happier now?"

And I want her to say yes. I always want her to say yes. She smiles at me, and I get excited because I _know_ she's going to tell me, "Yes Freddy, I am." Because if she was able to tell me that, I would feel a lot better about myself, and a lot better about this whole thing, and the depression I'm slowly sinking into would soon evaporate...

But she doesn't. That's when it gets dark again, like the sun finally set…because that's when she gets up and walks away from me. I'm left on my swingset, alone, and there's no trace of her ever being there, ever being with me. I get off the swing and walk inside my house, and that's when I wake up.

I've had the dream 12 times. I have yet to get an answer from her.

And yes…_that's_ what kills me more than anything.


End file.
